Tyson must sense the ugliness and pain beneath the surface of my words because he doesn’t ask for details. Instead, he pries open his carton of milk and offers, “The good news is that he’s a swimmer and I’m a diver. We aren’t competing against each other. I’m perfectly happy to take on some of that hate for you.”
I look at him skeptically but can’t hide my grin. “I don’t think it works that way, but thank you.”
“We’ll see.” He looks over his shoulder, back at the cafeteria line. “You really think I can talk her into extra dessert?”
My smile grows wider. “I have a feeling you can talk almost anyone into anything.”
“No time like the present to test that theory.” He hops up, striding across the room.
Sometimes being here is like carrying around a duffel bag filled with lead, every day, every class, every night. And although whatever happened with Hamilton in that locker room probably increased the weight of my baggage to the power of a gazillion, having someone to talk to—someone who understands, even if only on a surface level—has taken some of that weight off. And that’s...
I watch Tyson lean against the glass case and charm the pants off of Bev. Lo and behold, a moment later he returns with two extra desserts and a wide smile on his dimpled face.
Well, that’s something.
6
Hamilton
I started this utter cluster-fuck of a day squeaky clean from the shower, ready to forget about Gwendolyn Adams and her mouth. And her tits. And her hips. And her hands against my—
Well, moving on from that.
Obviously, one final and very necessary interaction had to be arranged.
I had to put the fear of God into her.
I’m not proud of how I’d left the locker room that night. Running away had been a clear sign of weakness. Really, I should have owned it. I should have picked up my bag, properly explained what I would do to her if she told anyone what happened, and then strutted out of that gym with my chin held high.
As it happened, my bag is still in the locker room, Adams is walking around there with a figurative H-bomb pointed at the very concept of my existence, and I’d spent the entire night whacking off like a panicked, hormonal moron.
That wouldn’t do.
It’s like my dad’s always said: The best time to prevent a scandal is right before it happens. The second best time is right after it happens. The third best time is right fucking now.
So I waited for her before first period, perfectly aware that by the time she slipped into the classroom, the halls would be empty. Obviously, no one could see me talking to her. That was a risk I wouldn’t take.
It was the perfect plan, except for one thing.
She was late—really, annoyingly, uncharacteristically late—for the one fucking class that has a zero-tolerance policy on tardiness. When I spotted her running toward me, down the deserted hall, I could instantly tell that she’d slept less than I had. She had dark smudges beneath her puffy, bloodshot eyes, and her long hair had been twisted up into a sloppy bun that had worked itself free enough to bob clumsily along behind her as she sprinted. Her unzipped hoodie had slouched itself down one of her shoulders, pinned to her arm by the straining strap of her book bag.
Jesus, she looked wrecked.
As if kissing me was actually horrible. As if Adams were the one lowering herself in that exchange. As if getting kissed by easily the most attractive and successful guy in this school was such a burden.
Fucking spare me.
In any case, we were both late because of her bullshit, so now I’m looking down the barrel of five Saturday detentions and ten hours of isolation with her. Not happening.
Probably, I could call my father and he’d have this shit taken care of by sundown. Well, normally. But I’m already up shit-creek with him. The last thing I want to give him is more fodder to fuel the crushing depths of his disappointment in me.
No, I’ll have to deal with Mr. Dewey myself. How hard can it be to get him to put us in separate rooms or something?
Of course, there’s a far more pressing matter, in that Gwendolyn has made friends with the new kid—that diver from Northridge brought in on scholarship. He’s sat with her two days in a row and for the last fifteen minutes, it’s obvious that she’s been giving him the run down on the school. I don’t necessarily give a shit about that. What concerns me is the fact they’ve both looked this way more than once. I can practically hear her voice in my head, whispering to him about it, lying about it, embellishing it; telling him everything about what happened between us last night.
“Babe, want to go take a walk by the lake before next period,” Reagan whispers, her hand running down my thigh. This girl. I can’t shake her. She’s been riding me all day. Does she know? How would she know?
To be fair, I’d intentionally sought her out earlier, following a truly depressing jerk-off session. I’d just wanted to get my game back, re-focus my hind-brain. So I’d made out with her behind the main building, spent a few long minutes sucking on her neck, giving her the mark. It was an effort to stabilize myself—to pretend everything was normal.